


the king of small victories

by all_these_ghosts



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Toothbrushes, season 7, silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-07-15 01:29:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7199885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/all_these_ghosts/pseuds/all_these_ghosts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are two toothbrushes in the bathroom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the king of small victories

set sometime in season seven and ignoring the fact that maybe mulder is dying??, because I can’t write any more sad things, especially when it’s so nice outside. :) 

* * *

There are two toothbrushes in the bathroom.

As always, Scully's red toothbrush is propped up on the spotlessly clean toothpaste holder. (Does she wipe that thing off every day? His is always coated in layers of toothpaste residue that never really come off, no matter how hard he scrubs.) This is normal.

But the extra toothbrush lying on the bathroom counter - a bright green Oral-B, size medium, still in its packaging - _that_ is new.

Mulder sticks his head out the bathroom door. "Hey Scully," he calls. "Is this for me?"

She reappears from around the corner, now wearing her bathrobe over her pajamas. It's untied and much too big for her. She is powerfully adorable. He waves the toothbrush toward her for inspection. "For me?" he repeats.

When she nods, a wordless grin spreads over his face. They've been sleeping together for months, and she's so far resisted his attempts to encroach any further on her life - clothing left behind is returned to him, neatly folded (with the exception of one missing Knicks t-shirt); he is the frequent recipient of messages that say things like "you left your phone charger at my place" or "you forgot your glasses", as though either of them believe it was an accident.

So far all he's managed is the stolen t-shirt (he wants that back, someday, after she's worn it enough that it smells like her) and an Oxford coffee mug he slipped in the back of a cabinet, high enough up that she can't reach without standing on a chair. That's probably cheating, but really, this is all her fault. He wouldn't have to resort to such extreme measures if she would just be reasonable and give him a drawer.  


As usual, Scully immediately goes on the defensive. "You never remember your own toothbrush, and your morning breath--" she starts, hands on her hips.

Mulder points the toothbrush at her. "Aha! I knew you had an ulterior motive."

She raises an eyebrow.

"I didn't know I was invited to spend the night," he lies, "but if you're worried about my morning breath..." He sticks the brush in his mouth and hums cheerfully, looking like he's won a fight she didn't even know she was in. She rolls her eyes.

And he loves Scully in the mornings, her hair wild and her defenses down. She is softer, smaller. On the rare occasions when she lets him stay over on a weeknight he watches her reapply her armor before work: the tailored suits, the tasteful makeup, the heels that click down the long hallways of the Hoover building. He hears that cadence in his dreams; he'd know it anywhere.

By the time he finishes in the bathroom Scully's already in bed, still wearing the bathrobe. She's reading a forensics journal with her glasses on. The comforter is tucked up around her waist, and she's folded the blankets down on his side of the bed - _my side_ , he thinks, a little gleeful, _I have a side_.

He grabs a case file from the living room and then joins her in bed. He always does this - brings over a pile of old X-files to "work on" at Scully's - like he still needs an excuse to be there, like the files won't end up forgotten on the coffee table within twenty minutes. He starts flipping through the pages. In some town in Wyoming people keep finding unidentifiable bodies in the river, no matches on the dental records or fingerprints for any of them. He hadn't realized they had rivers in Wyoming. Or towns.

He's ninety percent sure that the case is not an X-file - probably vagrants or paranoiacs (and there's plenty of those out in Wyoming) getting drunk and drowning - but they've been on him lately about "unnecessary spending", which just makes him want to spend unnecessarily as much as possible. He is ninety percent sure that it's not an X-file, but he is one hundred percent sure that he'll drag Scully out there just to check. She's caving on all kinds of things lately; maybe she'll let him sneak into her motel room this time.

It's late and the file is months old; it'll keep for one more day. "Night, Scully," he yawns, lying down on his side facing her. Scully looks at him over the top of her glasses and he shivers a little - she's always trying to get him to wear his glasses, and he's starting to see her point - then she flips off the lamp on her nightstand. 

He pulls her against him, his arm draped lazily across her belly.

"Anything interesting in that file?" she asks, twining her fingers through his, and god, he loves her. Here he assumed he'd pissed off every higher being, but that can't be true, not with this tiny scientist pressed up against him in bed, asking him to tell her ghost stories. There's no better pillow talk anywhere.

"I love you," he says, apparently out loud, and he immediately freezes. A half-second later she does too. Where she'd been warm and languid against him she is suddenly stiff, her body a straight line on the bed.

He holds his breath.

"Um," she says.

"Sorry. It's just...a habit." No. That is not the right answer, either, and he knows it.

Slowly - _so fucking slowly_ \- she turns in his arms to stare at him. "How can it be a habit, Mulder?"

"I, uh," he says, uncomfortable, "I think it a lot."

She has her doctor-face on, examining him. The last time he told her he loved her, he had a head injury.

Whatever she sees, blue eyes bright in the darkness, her fingers at his hairline, it must make sense to her. Her hands slide down to cup his jaw, her fingertips catching on day-old stubble, and she kisses him. He wants her to say it, too, but he tells himself that this is enough.

"Scully," he says after they've pulled apart, but she shakes her head _no_ and kisses him quiet again. Confession is over for today, apparently.

"About the toothbrush," she says. She's still close enough that he feels each word, a puff of air on his lips. "It probably makes sense for you to leave it here."

Mulder doesn't say, _Well, yeah_ , even though it's tempting. What, she was planning to buy a new toothbrush every time he stayed over?

"And you could leave a change of clothes here," she continues, and he thinks, _ah, here it is_ , "if you want."

He definitely, definitely wants. “Sure,” he says, like it’s no big deal, like he hasn’t been trying to worm his way into Dana Scully’s heart and life for a solid eight years now. When it comes to her, he is the king of small victories.

She snuggles up against him, her forehead pressed to his chest. “You were looking at Wyoming, right?” she says into his shirt, and he pulls the blankets up to her shoulders and tells her all about it.

She got him a toothbrush. It’s only a matter of time.


End file.
